


Foe, Fettered

by SolitaryViolence



Category: Doctor Who (1963)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Canon-Typical Violence, Dubious Consent, Ellipses Abuse, Established Relationship, M/M, Non-Consensual Bondage, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Self-Lubrication, Serial: s116: Castrovalva (referenced), Telepathy, The Author Regrets Everything, because aliens, i spent valentines day writing this lmao, if you know me irl IM SORRY, italic abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-03
Updated: 2020-04-03
Packaged: 2021-03-01 05:55:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,165
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23466484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SolitaryViolence/pseuds/SolitaryViolence
Summary: The Doctor wakes up bound and gagged in the Master's TARDIS.
Relationships: Fifth Doctor/The Master (Ainley)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 46





	Foe, Fettered

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first proper smut I've put out into the world! Do forgive me if it's a tad mechanical or if there's too much build-up; this (admittedly, rather prim and old-fashioned) lass is still trying to figure out exactly how she'd like to write this stuff. With that said, enjoy ;)

Black nothingness. An infinite void. Has he gone blind? 

Silence, but for an incessant ringing in his ears. Has he gone deaf?

His head hurts. His head really, really hurts. Has he been hit? He’s surely sustained considerable damage; that much, he can tell. Healing energy surges through his cells, giving him pins and needles that tingle beneath his skin.

How did he come to be here? Wherever here is.

Dear _Rassilon_ , that ache! It's interfering with his memory and disrupting his thought patterns, making him woozy and weak. Just what was he doing last? He remembers grass — _green_ grass. Was he on Earth? Three young people at his side, he recalls. Friends, perhaps? And a little blue box — no, a little blue _ship_ , too. Oh.

Aha! The TARDIS!

He’d taken his companions to Earth because Tegan wanted to go clothes shopping; though he’d told her there were plenty of clothes in the wardrobe she insisted they were all inadequate. They’d finished their trip early, at Adric’s insistence, and should’ve headed back to the TARDIS as normal. Except they didn’t, did they? He remembers now. He’d caught a glimpse of something... _aberrant_ out of the corner of his eye, so he lagged behind to have a little nosy and before he knew it, he was grabbed from behind and...

That’s all he can recall.

Wherever he is now, it isn’t _his_ TARDIS. But it is _a_ TARDIS. He can feel the familiar hum of the ship. Still, he can’t see. Are his eyes closed? He’s recovered slightly, as that ringing has all but disappeared, and feels well enough to make an attempt at slight movement. Ah, indeed they are closed, so he laboriously pries them open.

Black emptiness greets him yet again.

What‽

It clicks. He's _blindfolded_. No, no, no, this is not good!

Immediately, he struggles, but...

He's bound to the wall behind him, he realises, wincing as soon as the metal digs into his skin. Four-point restraints at the wrists and ankles.

Very well, then. He’ll shout.

And so he yells, at the top of his lungs.

The sound is stifled by a gag. As if this situation could get any worse!

He’s being held _captive_. He bets the Time Lords have something to do with this, those spoilsports! At least they haven’t taken his friends; they should be safe in his TARDIS. His own mental presence is the only one he senses, ruling out the possibility that he is one of many wounded captives aboard this ship.

These bonds are tight, sharpened, and unusually secure. Even using the tricks Houdini taught him, he can’t seem to wriggle out. As expected of the Time Lords! What will they gain from this? Locking him away, chaining him to a wall, gagging and blindfolding him…

Oh.

Oh no!

They’re not taking him back to Gallifrey, are they‽

Of all the unethical treatments! Couldn’t they have just called him? The _nerve_ of those-

He freezes, every muscle in his body tensing as the faint sound of a key turning in a nearby lock catches his ear. He counts one pair of footsteps heading towards him. Bipedal. Likely humanoid. A lackey? Perhaps a guard?

His muscles finally relax, only to tense up again less than a second later. As something collides with the wall behind him, he flinches. A hand, most likely. He can feel them now, this...this _stranger_ — his captor — leaning in so uncomfortably close. In an attempt to regain some personal space, he backs himself further against the wall, the fetters allowing for about an inch of movement. Really, it makes next to no difference, for he can still feel their hot breath against his skin…

_Hot_ breath. They’re not Gallifreyan.

What is the meaning of this‽

He hasn't much time to ponder before he's wincing and whimpering in arrant aversion as something comes to rest against his cheek.

It's leather, without a doubt. A leather-clad hand is _caressing_ him.

No! He’s not been brought here for _that_ , has he‽

The stranger strokes his cheek now, slowly, tracing circles with their fingertips, almost as if they’re _massaging_...

He _has_ been brought here for _that_.

Panic-stricken, he murmurs into the gag, fruitlessly fighting against ice-cold, cruelly honed metal that digs into his (oddly sensitive, he’s come to find) wrists. This is _unacceptable_! He will _not_ be taken advantage of like this. He will _not_ entertain his sadistic captor. He absolutely cannot let himself be _molested_ -

“Ow!” he cries out, not expecting the rough slap to the cheek his captor stroked not long ago.

The message is crystal clear. Resistance shall be met with violence. 

He draws in a sharp, shaky breath when something hot and wet teasingly brushes against his neck, then swallows hard, suddenly regretting not covering up _all_ of his erogenous zones. He really shouldn’t have unravelled that scarf. What he’s realised is a tongue licks at him ever so slowly, almost as if his captor is _goading_ him, making him squirm and mewl and throw his head back against the wall. Though he doesn’t want to react, his body betrays him; the way this stranger tantalises and titillates by tonguing at all his hypersensitive spots makes it exceedingly difficult to remain as placid as he might like to. Muffled, indistinct moans and gasps escape him as his chest heaves with the arousal and fear running rampant within. His cheeks burn with avidity, and it’s becoming increasingly difficult to ignore the swelling between his legs. It seems this body is far more responsive than his previous four had ever been — and more vocal, too. The stranger gives him one last lick, starting at his collarbone and making their way up to his jawline, before their actions cease altogether.

In confusion and slight disappointment, he lets out a long, keen whine and bucks his hips fervently. With this display of alacrity, he catches his amorous stranger’s breath hitch and can tell their faces must be no more than an inch apart. 

He swallows in anticipation.

Indulging his captor, he lets out a few more wheedling whimpers. Muffled though they are, it seems as though they are sufficient, for he’s soon gasping at the sensation of lips between his collarbones.

Hang on, that’s facial hair!

Oh, no, surely not? _He_ wouldn’t stoop this low, would he?

Of course, he wouldn’t. He need only give him a call if he wishes to partake in...these kinds of relations. Besides, many species have facial hair! Many species have hair all over, including the women.

As the buttons of his shirt are undone (his jumper and coat must have been removed before he was bound, he notes), the stranger trails gentle kisses down his torso, one by one. A shiver runs down his spine as they plant their lips just above his navel, and he moans again. The stranger must realise they’ve discovered another particularly sensitive spot because soon, they’re nibbling at the fragile skin and making him cry out into the gag and clench his fists and writhe, his cock eagerly twitching underneath a fabric barrier. Oh, he’s so very _hot_! Even the blood coursing through his veins feels like it’s boiling; this sweltering, carnal heat is almost too much to bear. He just wants to be set free, so he can get away before these wanton desires impede his ability to think logically. They’re delicately _pecking_ and _nibbling_ at various spots across his torso, driving him mad. His whimpers become more frequent and urgent, and his frantic hip motions become more frenzied. Altogether, he becomes more desperate.

The stranger must take pity upon him. That, or they too have gotten bored of teasing. They pull away.

Yet more frissons run through him as, finally, the stranger pays attention to his swollen, neglected cock, palming him through his trousers. He moans, though whether in protest or pleasure he knows not, writhing under their deft touch. When they lean in closer and press him against the wall with a tight grip on his left shoulder, he starts. They’re so close to him he can feel their breath on his neck. He whinges, trembling with excitement, growing increasingly desirous; they touch him so softly, so frustratingly slowly he can't stand it! He lets out incoherent sounds of near-despair not unlike sobs, and thinks he catches his captor’s breath falter before they stop what they’re doing and break away.

It's not long before they’re touching him again. This time, they have one hand on his mandible and the other pulling the back of his head away from the wall. He’s confused at first, but then he realises what’s going on. The saliva-drenched gag is undone, then the stranger tosses it aside, and it hits the ground below with a weak thud.  
“Plea-” he begins, only for his sentence to be halted by a leather-clad finger placed against his lips. How embarrassing he thinks it to be silenced like a schoolchild!  
He has a niggling urge to ask why they bothered removing the gag if they don’t want him to speak, yet suppresses it, holding his tongue at his captor’s request. They lean in again, pushing their body against his, and he gasps. His cock pulses, pressed up against the stranger’s thigh. He feels their leather-clad hands brush up against his as they fiddle with the restraints. He figures, based on how much time it’s taking to undo them, these darbies must have complicated security mechanisms, implying that the stranger hails from a technologically advanced society.  
“Who are you?” he asks in an unsteady, breathy voice. 

The faint clink of metal serves as his only response.

“What’s your name?” he tries again. 

No answer.

After a while, they have the handcuffs undone. Immediately, he rubs his sore wrists, grimacing in pain when he realises that a few layers of skin were abraded and a small amount of blood was drawn. His captor creates some distance, so he whines once more. He wants to touch himself, to relieve himself of all of this repressed salacity, but he’s not quite sure how his potentially dangerous captor may react, so keeps his hands clasped and at the level of his abdomen. He can feel just how fast his pulses are racing and just how fast his blood is pumping, and quite frankly, it's unnerving. His captor seems to be fiddling with the restraints around his ankles now. Perhaps they’re going to let him go, at last! Or perhaps that’s wishful thinking. Oh, well, he’s always been the optimist. This time it doesn’t take nearly as long, yet still, he awaits patiently as his captor kicks off his tethers. 

The blindfold is left on as a pair of strong hands guide him to his knees. They’re not letting him go, then. Sighing in defeat, he unclasps his hands, letting them hang limply at his side.

Almost no time passes before the stranger is again level with him. He hears a couple of _clinks_ , recognising the sound of his braces being removed. Leather makes contact with the flushed skin of his shoulders as the stranger eases his shirt off. Immediately following this, those hands snake up his arms and again rest upon his shoulders, then mercilessly push him backwards, forcing from him another cry of pain as his back and already-aching head hit the floor. Waves of dizziness and a hundred other sensations flood his body, almost paralysing him. He’s unable to fight as his stranger rids him of his lower garments, exposing the extent of his arousal. He digs his fingernails into the ground, fighting the urge to just fuck himself, for he’s so, _so_ ready for it, so _hard_ and so _wet_ , and oh, he _needs_ it!

“Please,” he begins, his voice tremulous and higher than it ought to be, “please, please me.”

The stranger exhales sharply, sounding as if they’re stifling a laugh. He’s desperate now, biting his bottom lip and clenching his pelvic muscles and breathing hard. He’s not used to feeling so _hot_. Shudders wreath his frame as he senses a presence above him, then he gasps as he leather nudges his entrance.

“Wait,” he blurts out, scrambling for words, “I don’t ne-”

His sentence is halted by a noise somewhere in between a gasp and a cry, let out in response to the sensation of a finger entering him. In protest, he scutters away, crawling on his hands and knees. Alas, he doesn’t get far, not in this weakened state; his captor soon pounces on him, flipping him over and pinning him to the floor with a hand on his florid chest. His breath is unsteady and manic with a mélange of understandable terror and uncontrollable lust, yet he’s moaning and bucking his hips as the stranger’s hand lightly brushes against his left nipple and trails down his side, stopping to rest on his hipbone, holding it to the floor. Whining, he squirms, but he’s silenced when a gloved finger enters him once more. This time, he doesn’t struggle, letting out a long, hungry moan once he accustoms himself to the feeling. He can feel how wet he is, how his body is begging to be ravished. It’s almost embarrassing how utterly, helplessly _desperate_ he is for this. It surprises him, how receptive he is, given that he’s never done anything sexual in this body before...well, nothing he can quite remember, anyway. One finger becomes two within a matter of a minute, but he’s fucked and stretched so very carefully, as if his captor fears he’ll break under their touch.

“Y-you can,” he struggles to formulate words, “be rougher. _Ah_ , faster, I mean. _I_ don’t m- _ah_ -ind.”

At his request, they pick up their pace, adding a third finger. He practically squeals through his rapid breaths, arching his back and moving his hips back and forth, working with his partner. _Oh_ , he’d asked for it faster, but this is almost too much — this body seems so sensitive, perhaps unbearably so. His partner appears to sense this, removing their fingers within a matter of minutes. Even then, they leave him a writhing, begging mess.

“N-no, please,” he begins in an obscene tone, not even trying to mask his yearning, “don’t stop.”

Regrettably, his captor is heedless to his orders.

“ _Please_ , I was so close.”

His captor scoffs. They sound oddly familiar.

“Won’t you tell me who you are? At the very least, tell me your species? Your name? Can you understand me? I’m the-”  
“Shh,” they cut him off.

He’s about to reply when he hears the rustling of fabric nearby. Frozen in place, he waits as his muscles clench around thin air. Promptly, his partner returns to him, forcefully spreading his legs. Somehow, blushes harder than ever, his entire body burning like a volcano. Ever so slowly and ever so gently, the stranger pushes themself inside of him.

He finally gets another hint towards their identity. They’re male.

Though it would be so easy to just ram into him over and over — he’s utterly soaking — the stranger takes his time, allowing him to adjust. Once his partner is all the way in, the Doctor sighs in contentment, feeling so, so _full_. It’s been ages — centuries, even — since he’s felt this good, this _whole_. A hand — ungloved, this time — snakes up his right side, and he groans. For a bloke who abducts and debauches unsuspecting aliens just for kicks, he has awfully soft hands. The Doctor’s attention is pulled away from his partner’s hands when he finally withdraws, then thrusts into him hard. He barely has any time to process what just happened before his partner is so roughly pounding into him, forcing a multitude of indecent sounds from his mouth. For the first time, he hears his partner moan. The sonorous sound evokes a curious sense of déjà vu.

All of a sudden, fuzzy, repressed memories fill his mind. He sees the vivid image of his back pinned to a lumpy mattress, hears _that same moan_ in his ear, smells the faint scent of herbs, experiences the pleasant touch of velvet against his fingers, and feels regenerative energy surging through him…

He occupies himself with trying to decipher these thoughts for a short moment, but finds it difficult to focus on them, what when he’s being fucked with such passion and skill. His partner seems to know exactly how to please him; he’s hitting all the right spots and reducing him to a complaisant, squirming, moaning _plaything_. He knows he's being used, but it doesn’t matter to him. In fact, he thinks he quite enjoys it. No, he knows he enjoys it, for his body is telling him that much — he’s practically created a puddle on the floor at this point. He can feel it, slick against his buttocks. So, really, it comes as no surprise when his partner accidentally slips out of him and ends up thrusting against his right hipbone. In response, he giggles. His partner lets out a low chuckle.

He’d recognise that laugh anywhere.

“...Master?” he asks sotto voce as his grin fades.

The Master lunges forward, attacking the Doctor's lips with his own as he thrusts back into him and picks up a faster pace. They stifle each other’s unbidden, unseemly moans with lips that move arhythmically, consumed by visceral desire. When he runs out of breath (damned alien body - no respiratory bypass system!), the Master breaks the kiss, putting his lips to use elsewhere. The Doctor squeals as a warm tongue laps at the sensitive, delicate skin of his neck. He knows he should resist. He should break free. He shouldn’t be letting this happen, but, _oh_ this sweet yet agonising pleasure is exhilarating and intoxicating and overwhelming and, oh _fuck_ , he’s close...

“Ma-Master, I-” he moans out, unable to form a coherent sentence between his urgent whimpers.

The Master stops licking at the Doctor’s neck to bite off his second glove, still pounding into him relentlessly. He leans in again, and with a now-ungloved palm pressed against the Doctor’s pretty, pink cheek, initiates telepathic contact.

_I’m close_ , the Doctor tells him.  
_Say my name_ , he commands.  
_Master_ , the Doctor complies, _I’m going to-_  
_Then cum for me, Dear._

With that, the Doctor lets go, letting his back hit the floor as he all but shrieks, with a wave of euphoria washing over him. The Master thrusts twice more, and with a rich groan, finishes inside his partner. His elbows go weak as he collapses onto the Doctor’s chest, which rises and falls in tandem with his. Their breathing is heavy and erratic as they recover from _la petite mort_.

Once he regains his composure, the Master smirks, basking in the afterglow of his victory.

Lazily, the Doctor grapples at the silk blindfold. He frees one eye from its confines as the Master pulls out and sits up.

“Next time,” the Doctor begins, “just give me a call. My head’s killing me.”


End file.
